Gambling Practically
by The Elfmaniac
Summary: The mayor's daughter gambles in a newsie. [ RacetrackOC ]
1. Meeting

**Title:** Gambling Practially

**Author:** Erin (The Elfmaniac)

**Rating:** K+. Will go up.

**Pairings: **Racetrack/OC

**Summary: **The mayor's daughter gambles in a newsie.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or the characters.

**Notes:** Probably will...uh, be chaptered. Only if you like it.

**Special Thanks: **none.

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"Ouch!"

She rubbed her hand indignantly; that was the fourth time today her piano instructor had decided on hitting her knuckles.

"Play it right, and I won't have to do that," he said curtly, pointing at the page in the book. She whined something incoherent, straightening out a little. She cleared her throat and flexed her fingers.

"From the top."

She narrowed her eyes a little, deciding that she loathed. Handel. As it was nearing the Christmas season, she was to play Christmas music. At the moment, she was attempting to play 'The Messiah', stumbling over all the notes.

Oh, the sixtee--

"OUCH!" she squeaked, pulling her hands back yet again. "I played it right!"  
"Not with the right rhythms, young lady."

Brenna McLaughlan rubbed her hands again, sighing and looking up at him. "Would you rather play 'God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen?'" he asked after a few moments, quirking an eyebrow at her.  
"No, sir. If I may, I would like to go home."

He looked thoughtful for a few moments, then sighed, rubbing his eyes a bit. He finally gathered up all of her music, handing it to her. "Practice, as I do not think your parents will be pleased with your inability to grasp things."  
"Yes, sir," she said with a curt nod, moving towards the door. Brenna carefully shifted her music so she was able to get her coat on. It was really her favorite coat, a straight 'navy fit'. Dark blue, of course, with shiny buttons up the fabric—she kept them open, for now, as it wasn't particularly cold out.

Just very, very snowy.

"Also, I will not be able to see you next Tuesday—come in on Thursday, perhaps," he said as she slipped her gloves on, looking back at him.  
"Alright, sir. Have a pleasant day."  
"You too."

She turned the knob, stepping out into the swirling wonderland, immediately hit by the rushing of the wind. It hadn't been quite so breezy earlier, and Brenna was ill-prepared for something like this, really.

Wiry, blonde curls whipped about her face, displacing from behind her ears. She hadn't brought a hat, of course, because of the earlier pleasantness to the air hadn't really been as threatening as it seemed, now.

Bright grey eye blinked wearily against the snow whipping across her face, flushed pink with the cold.

Brenna hunched her shoulders, bending her thin frame against the wind. To protect herself as much as possible, of course. Or, to protect her papers, but.

The light blue part of her dress was blown straight against her legs, making it look like she was wearing trousers rather than the dainty gown she was

Brenna was able to take one more step, onto an unseen icepatch. "Ee!" she squeaked, legs flying beneath her.

With an 'oof', she hit the ground on her back, papers beginning to blow away with the wind.  
"Oh! No! Come back!" she pleaded, rolling over, scrambling to her feet. Brenna only succeeded in slipping again, onto her stomach, coughing a bit.

"Extra, Oh extra!" a shaking voice called out over the wind a little down the way, " Brooklyn man breeds two-headed goat!"

Oh, it was a lie. It was a plain, flat-out lie. There was no story about a Brooklyn man breeding a two-headed goat. Why would a man in Brooklyn even have a goat? But the papers simply weren't selling. The weather was bitterly cold, and anyone who could afford a paper didn't seem to want to come out in it.  
The newsie cursed under his breath, jumping up and down on the spot a few times to try and warm himself up. His bets hadn't proved prosperous lately, and he hadn't been able to afford anything suitable for winter.The stupid horses hadn't pulled through for the youth, who earned all his extra cash (which wasn't much) better on races. That was also how he earned the nickname, Racetrack. His real name? That, my friend, has been lost to the ancients.

He looked down when he felt something contact and stick to his leg. A sheet of... music? He picked it up, then noticed several other sheets scattered about and blowing by. When he looked down the sidewalk, he noticed a girl who had, apparently, slipped.  
Feeling a burst of chivalry, he gathered up as many papers as he could and walked down to her, offering her his hand. 

"Y'alright, miss?" he inquired with a good-natured smile.

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And end the bad.  
Read and review if you want more. 


	2. Conversation

**Thank you, everyone, for the reviews. I really do appreciate them. (: **

Chapter two, now, I guess.

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At the sound of another voice, her face turned impossibly redder, eyes dreading to look up.  
A hand, however, was thrust into her line of vision, and she peered up meekly. She had half-expected it to be her father, his face scrunched up in what she called 'the disappointed face'. She bit her tongue, however, as she saw it was not him, but a younger man.  
In poorer dress. 

"Th-thank you," she stuttered out, eyes drifting over the papers in his hands, for now. She hadn't quite registered that he was trying to help her, swallowing a bit. The cold could easily excuse Brenna's wavering speech, a poor habit she had.

It was also...people seeing her like this made her feell unbelievably uncomfortable and frightened. They may not know whom she was, nor known much about her, but they knew that she had weaknesses. And that she had a small stuttering problem.

Somehow, however, during her innermost monologue, the boy had managed to get her to her feet. Her hands automatically began to brush herself off of the excess snow, 'thank you's tumbling out left and right.

"No'ta problem, miss," Racetrack responded, remebering the numerous papers he had collected. He looked down at them, then back at her, sticking his hands out again. "These yours, miss?"

A rush of joy overcame her, pure gratitude reading over her face as the musical notes came into her field of vision. They were soaked through and running, though it was nothing drying them out and touching them up a little bit could not help. "Oh, y-yes! Th-they a-are my p-pa-papers," Brenna replied, delicatedly moving them from his hands to her own. A small, almost undectable smile crept up her features.  
"Ya afrid o'me? Or, are ya cold?" he asked, noting the problem she had with forming words. He raised an eyebrow, an amused look gracing his features. The smile that had been plastered on his face curled into a smirk.

"W-well," she began, flustered at him bringing it up. "I-I'm c-certainly _n-no-not_ afraid of you. U-un-unless...I s-should b-be?" Brenna finished, eyes looking a bit worried.

Race laughed.  
"Nah, miss. I wouldn't hurtcha," he said in the most serious tones he could muster, trying not to let any sort of joke betray his truth. Racetrack wouldn't hurt a young woman, of course; he undoubtedly knew much better than to do that.  
She looked to the damp papers in her arms, watching the ink run down the page in an awkward fashion.

"W-well...I...I b-best be go-going," she started, looking up at him, not quite meeting his eyes.  
"D'ya want someone to escort ya home?" he offered after a few moments of thought. "The streets...they just ain't so safe sometimes."  
She looked quite alarmed, straightening out.  
"W-well...th-that may be...n-nice," she mumbled.  
Race's features lit up.

Not because she was attractive, of course. Not now. But because Brenna had the undeniable air of wealth about her. Welathy people often thanked young gentlmen whom brought their precious daughter home with some sort of reward.  
She had already began down the cobbled street, however, and Race slung his own papers over his shoulder. He bit his lower lip in an attempt to keep any questions from spilling out, until a useful one came into his mind.  
"What's yer name?" he asked after a few moments.  
"B-Bernadette. W-well, I pr-prefer to be c-called Brenna.." she said, looking down to her feet. "An-and you?"  
"Racetrack Higgins."  
"Is th-that y-your actual name?" she asked, blinking blearily at him.

Race looked solemnly at her. "I dunno my real name. I guess it'd be bettah than the one I have now, but it's what I got."  
She nodded.  
"Dont'cha got a last name, Brenna?" he asked after a moment, watching her hair move.  
"I do," she said, biting the inside of her cheek.  
"What is it, den?"

Brenna thought about using her real last name, though that would most likely alert the young man about her father. She ran through a list of names in her mind, trying to make one up quickly.  
"Smith," she uttered.  
"Nice name, dat."

It was just a little white lie.

Brenna stared ahead, the white snow blending together. She felt queer, odd, the obvious anxiety about lying and being near a person she barely knew written all over her face. She dreaded to look back at him, deciding against it.  
So, she silently went down the cobbled road, the crunch of snow behind her signalling the strange young man was still follwoing her.

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